


Decisions, Decisions

by Auriana Valoria (AuriV1)



Series: Herald of Change [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Circle of Magi, Free Marches (Dragon Age), Gen, Good Templars (Dragon Age), Hasmal, Orlais (Dragon Age), Val Chevin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25918855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriV1/pseuds/Auriana%20Valoria
Summary: Archmage Verana-Kathryn Trevelyan and her fellow Circle mages, after finally finding a somewhat safe haven in Hasmal's Circle of Magi, receives word of Divine Justinia's impending Conclave.Meanwhile, after arriving in Orlais, her brother, Knight-Lieutenant Donovan Trevelyan, also learns of the Divine's Conclave and simultaneously is given an offer for a job from the local Chantry Mother of Val Chevin.With the assurance of safety for both Templars and mages becoming less and less certain with each passing week, decisions must be made - ones that will change the course of all of their lives forever.
Series: Herald of Change [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636348
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

_Hasmal, the Free Marches; Molioris (Bloomingtide), 9:41 Dragon_

Danlan cleared the chessboard again and began resetting the pieces as Simmy propped her chin on her hand and watched him. This would be the third round that afternoon – two losses for her and a draw.

It wasn’t his favorite pastime, but at least it was _something_ to occupy his mind. The Circle tower of Hasmal was two-thirds empty, even with the ragtag group of refugees from Ostwick and Markham added to the mix. Despite his significant lack of forces, the local Knight-Commander, Brycen, was doing his best to keep the loyalist mages and Templars in the tower safe. It was something that was becoming increasingly difficult to do, as rioters regularly demonstrated outside the tower walls. According to Brycen, if push came to shove, they could activate the magical wards to keep people out, but the Knight-Commander insisted that such a move be a last-resort measure. It was apparent that Brycen hoped the obvious lack of magical activity from the tower would convince the citizenry that nothing was afoot, and they would eventually give up their taunting.

Danlan was not so sure that would happen. But, like the rest of them holed up there, they hoped and prayed.

It had been a nightmare getting into the city. Verana must have spent half an hour or more asking for the Knight-Commander’s presence and insisting they were Circle mages seeking sanctuary before the city guard would let them within a stone’s throw of the gates. Half of them had almost decided to seek asylum elsewhere when, finally, the Knight-Commander himself forced his way out and personally escorted them to the tower with a handful of his comrades. It was a tense few minutes to the Circle itself, walking briskly past sneering and threatening spectators who looked ready to throw much worse things than rotten vegetables at them. At last, when the heavy doors of the tower closed behind them, pushed shut by their escorts, everyone released a shuddering sigh of relief.

Verana must have thanked Brycen a dozen times or more for his hospitality, but the Knight-Commander had insisted it was only his duty – a duty that too many Templars had chosen to forget in these troubled times. It felt strange encountering a Templar who wasn’t afraid to do what his job actually entailed, which included protecting mages from the general public. They hadn’t known such since Ostwick.

The resident mages, those who had survived the uprising at Hasmal, had welcomed the newcomers warmly and insisted they share in the tower’s plentiful stores... at least, what hadn’t been damaged during their own rebellion. According to them, there were enough supplies stockpiled to last a year, if need be. So, for the first time in months, Verana’s little following had actual baths, warm meals, and soft beds, and for a long time, they could not believe their luck.

But with each week that passed, the shouts of the rioters would get a little louder.

It was ridiculous, really. From what Danlan understood, the citizens had been paranoid ever since the mage-Templar war had broken out. They suspected everything from the Templars colluding with the mages against the Chantry, to the Templars completely ignoring their duties and forsaking the Maker, to the mages actually bewitching the Templars and subjecting them to demonic possession. The elf supposed that the only thing preventing a mob from swarming the tower was the intimidating prowess of those who dwelled within. Despite their small number, even a handful of mages and Templars could cause a great deal of damage to any assailants.

“Your turn.”

Simmy prompted him to make a move, pulling him out of his deep thoughts. He studied the board with brow furrowed, and he was just about to move his rook to a position that would effectively trap one of her knights when the door of the commons swung open.

“Everyone gather round, quickly.”

Archmage Verana then entered the room, followed by Brycen and his Templars… all of them. Every mage abruptly stood, glancing one to the other with concerned looks writ on their faces. At the mages’ worried reaction, both Verana and Brycen held up their hands in a gesture of peace.

“Don’t be alarmed,” the Knight-Commander reassured them. “We just have an important announcement to share with you.”

Verana held up a piece of folded parchment. “This is a notice from Divine Justinia. Apparently, Her Perfection is hosting a Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes in Ferelden during the final week in August. She seeks peace between mages and Templars, and she wishes to bring the leaders of both sides together to speak their minds.”

The Knight-Commander let his gaze sweep over them. “So… who among you would like to attend this Conclave and let your voices as loyalist mages be heard by Most Holy?”

Murmuring rippled through the mages in a wave, and Danlan was unsure how to respond. Peace? The Divine was finally stepping in? But what if it was a trap? Was it safe to go? What if the rebels of both sides could not agree to stop the war? These questions and more raced through his thoughts and were voiced by the other mages around him as he shared furtive glances with Simmy at his side. The murmuring in the hall steadily grew louder, until Brycen raised his hand again to get their attention once more.

“There is something that may affect your decision,” he added once the murmurs settled down. “This meeting is almost assuredly for the high-ranked members of both organizations… Templars of my rank or higher, and perhaps mages of minimum rank of Senior Enchanter. Everyone else will most likely be present only for a show of numbers, if they are even allowed near the Temple.”

“I have decided that I will go to represent Ostwick,” Verana continued. “Any of you who wish to come with me are welcome to do so. However, for those of you who do not want to make the journey, the Knight-Commander has assured me that he will continue to do his best to protect you here.”

“Be aware, though, that things may spiral out of my control,” Brycen finished gravely. “And so there is danger, either way.”

More murmurs. Danlan looked at Simmy, who looked back at him and the two leaders. So, they could risk being killed on the way to the Conclave, at the Conclave, or during the Conclave, or they could stay here and risk being overwhelmed and killed by an angry mob. His brow furrowed as he considered the options. It was difficult either way.

Then, suddenly, something emboldened the elf. There was something that needed to be said… something that had been bothering him for the last few weeks. He stepped forward, and his movement caused a hush to fall over the spectators as they anticipated his decision. When he realized he had a rapt audience of mages and Templars both, he felt a bit self-conscious. But when he saw the looks from Verana and Brycen, those of respect and attention, he recovered his courage and began to speak.

“This war… this war we have fled from, that has destroyed our homes and taken the lives of our friends… was started because we did not listen to each other. Because we chose to ignore each other’s plights.” He glanced around at each face, and he saw a few nods of agreement amongst the listeners. “If we are to end this, as the Divine wishes, then we must not perpetuate this cycle of inconsideration. We must let our voices be heard, all of us, together. Even if that means most of us only speak as a number of bodies in a room. And,” he paused, letting his gaze fall upon the cabal of Templars, “we must be aware of each other’s problems, and how we affect the lives of those around us.” He gestured to Brycen. “The Knight-Commander has generously allowed us – not only mages of his own Circle, but refugees from all over the Marches – to stay here, behind the swords and shields of his remaining men. He… _they_ … have done their true duty as Templars to protect mages from those who would see us dead for what we were born with.”

There was a chorus of quiet ayes and nods, and several of them glanced to the high windows, beyond which a seething citizenry awaited.

“They have been aware of our plight, but have _we_ been aware of _theirs_?” Danlan asked, turning to his fellow mages. “It is not just our hides that are at risk here in this tower. The mob cries for all our blood, Templar and mage alike. The Knight-Commander and his men have stuck their necks out for us, and half of us complete strangers who came begging on their doorstep. Perhaps it is time we stuck out _our_ necks for them.”

Verana and Brycen glanced to each other, sharing curious looks as they wondered what the elf was getting at.

Danlan then moved to stand by Verana’s side, opposite Brycen. “I propose that every mage in this tower leave with the Archmage for the Conclave, not only to seek peace, but to give the Knight-Commander and the other Templars here the rest they deserve. If we leave, then there will be nothing left for the mob to complain about, and perhaps they will be able to find respite between now and whatever resolution the Divine’s Conclave brings. Is it not the least we can do in return for the protection we have been given these last few weeks and, for some of us, longer?”

Brycen gave him a half-smile as he looked around Verana at the elf. “I am certain that I speak for all my men when I say that we appreciate the gesture. However, do not let concern for our fate dictate which path you choose.” Returning his attention to the rest of the room, the Knight-Commander added, “That goes for all of you.”

There were several moments of jabber in raised voices, groups of mages huddled together as they hashed out their options… some of them more heatedly than others. From her place beside Danlan, Verana heaved a slightly impatient sigh, at which Brycen merely chuckled. It seemed that the mages couldn’t do anything without a heavy amount of debate.

At last, the group quieted down, as if, all at once, they just made up their minds. Surprisingly, Simmy was the first among the mages to step forward, walking up to Danlan with a loud declaration. “I’m going, too.”

After a few moments, four more stepped forth to join the elves. “The Senior Enchanters of Hasmal will go.”

Slowly but surely, more and more mages joined with the small company at the front of the room, until, ultimately, all of them had agreed to go with Verana to the Conclave. When they finally realized that none of their fellow mages would be left behind at Hasmal, they erupted into applause. Danlan looked to Verana, who merely smiled softly and nodded to him, as if giving him a small congratulations.

It was decided.

“Now,” Brycen said at length, turning to his own men as he addressed the mages, “I cannot let you leave unguarded. There must be Templars who travel with you to ensure you are not hindered by various forces on the road. Do I have any volunteers?” He glanced over those under his command, who in turn glanced to each other and gave indifferent shrugs.

There were more than a few breaths of silence before one helmed Templar finally stepped forward. “I will go with them, Ser.”

Two more of his comrades immediately followed, likely friends. “And we.”

Brycen smiled approvingly. “Good. Help yourselves to the storerooms and take anything and everything you might find of use. The journey will be long and dangerous, and there is no telling what forces you will encounter on the way.” With that, he moved towards Verana and clapped a heavy armored hand on her shoulder. “Maker guide you, Archmage, and may he steer us towards true peace.”

“Maker keep you safe, Commander,” Verana replied solemnly, dipping her head to him.

At the Archmage’s side, Danlan watched and nodded respectfully as the Knight-Commander passed by and headed out into the tower hall. It was then that the elf realized just how tired Brycen looked. Despite his late middle-years, the Templar had always seemed so strong, even fierce, in the short time that he had known him. Now, though, as the mages prepared to depart for the Conclave, he looked almost sad.

Somehow, Danlan felt as though Brycen was predicting a terrible end to the whole situation. And perhaps he was right.


	2. Chapter 2

_Val Chevin, the Empire of Orlais; Molioris (Bloomingtide), 9:41 Dragon_

Donovan stirred, sweating under the blanket that pinned him to the mattress. It had been pulled up all the way under his armpits, stretched tight across his chest, making it feel as though it were weighing him down as he clawed his way out of sleep. He was sweltering and yet cold at the same time, and it felt like the sheets beneath him were drenched.

Then, suddenly, he felt something cool touch his forehead, and his eyes snapped open. There, an elderly Chantry Mother was leaning over him from where she sat on the edge of the cot, gently mopping his brow with a damp cloth and pushing stray hair from his face. When she saw that he was awake, she gave a smile that was soft and warm. “There, there, ser,” she said with a distinctly Orlesian accent, her chocolate-brown gaze soft as she met his own. “Do you remember where you are? How you got here?”

“Orlais?” he replied wearily, though he only guessed that because of the accent. She seemed to have sensed this, as she chuckled lightly at his response. Continuing to press the blessedly cool cloth to his skin, she answered, “Yes. You are in Val Chevin. You and your men arrived here by ship from Kirkwall three days ago.”

“Oh, right,” he murmured, brow furrowing as he closed his eyes and tried to remember. The last thing he could recall was stumbling off the dock after the ship had anchored, his head pounding and his flesh on fire all the while…

“What happened?” he asked at length, eyes opening again. “Where are my-?”

“All fine,” she reassured him soothingly, patting him on the shoulder. “All just fine, young man. Though you might not have been had you arrived a day or two later than you did. This illness you all have is nothing like I have ever seen before.” She refreshed the cloth in a small bucket she had put on a stool by the bed, rinsing and wringing out the rag before wiping down his arms. “It resists all treatment. Potions do no good, and no herbs for any common ailments with similar symptoms offer any relief. We – my sisters and I – have had to merely wait it out and, in the meantime, try to keep you all from succumbing to your fevers.”

She sighed, then, ceasing her tending and studying his face. “You have fared better than some of your comrades. There were a few among them who reacted a bit more… violently than you.”

“Violently?” His brow furrowed, and alarm suddenly filled him. “Mother, they didn’t hurt-?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, they were restrained rather quickly by the guard. I believe they were suffering hallucinations from the fever… they kept mentioning something about singing.”

_Singing?_

“But all that is past, now,” she continued, rising to her feet. “I think your fever may be broken at last, so I will have some food brought to you. No doubt you will be hungry, if you aren’t already.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he answered with a dip of his head, and she offered a slight bow before turning to leave.

Once the door closed behind the old woman, Donovan sat up in the bed and took in his surroundings. He had been put in a very small room… perhaps what had been a storage room converted into a cell for patient use, which made him think that this Chantry was not large enough for its own infirmary. His belongings had been stacked neatly beside a chair on the opposite wall near the door. Butted up against the foot of his cot was an ancient wardrobe that looked like it hadn’t been opened in centuries. The stool beside his bed served as a nightstand of sorts; the priestess had taken the bucket of water with her, and what remained was a half-stub of candle and a stack of three more clean rags.

Lifting the blanket, he realized he had been stripped to his underclothes. Pulling the worn, moth-eaten fabric around his waist, Donovan decided he would have to wait to rise and put on anything else until he made sure the door was locked. He didn’t want to shock any good sisters who might come barging in…

As if on cue, a particularly young lay sister abruptly entered with a pewter tray in hand, opening the door with her hip and all smiles as she cautiously approached him.

“Mother Hanna said to bring you this,” she greeted him in what seemed to be an absurdly cheerful manner, and a part of him sensed that her tone did not stem from true happiness. He noticed the tray trembled a bit as she set it down on the end of the cot, and he suddenly realized that she was actually nervous. His hunch was correct; her smile was a cover for fear.

“Not to worry, Sister. We’re not like those rebels,” he told her reassuringly, suspecting that was what she was afraid of.

“What? I… oh!” She stepped backwards a bit after she released the tray, her face reddening in embarrassment. It was apparent that she did not expect her anxiousness to be so obvious. “I’m sorry, ser, I…”

“No, no.” He shook his head to halt her apology. “I understand. My comrades and I weren’t in the best shape when we arrived, and I am the one who must apologize for any harm we may have done. I am not having the best time remembering how we got here.” He dipped his head to her respectfully, “Please send my thanks to the other sisters for their efforts. I promise we will be on our way as soon as we are able.”

“I… I will ser!” She nodded enthusiastically.

“And a favor, if you will?” He raised a hand to hold her attention as she turned to go. “If you could, secure the door? I would like to make myself a little more decent and presentable than I am.”

“Oh.” Her bright blue eyes involuntarily wandered south of his face for but a brief instant. “Y-yes, of course, ser!” Her cheeks reddened again, redder than her robes as she spun away. “Good day!”

He waited until the door closed and was secured after she practically flew out of the room and then heaved a heavy sigh, shaking his head and pulling the tray nearer as he began to think. The illness he and his men had suffered concerned him, and it was apparent it was much more than a mere common ailment.

Lost memory, fevers, hallucinations, violent outbursts… and hearing _singing_?

Suddenly, his eyes widened as he recalled the inn at Tantervale and the sensations he had felt when the strange Templar had approached them.

He hadn’t asked about the cargo being transported from Kirkwall, and now he was almost glad that he hadn’t. Because if what was on that ship had been what he now feared it was, he would have jumped overboard and swam the rest of the way to Orlais.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

His breakfast consisted of water and pasty gruel, a result of the effects of both the ongoing Orlesian civil war and, now, the rebel mage-Templar conflict. Mother Hanna, his caretaker, explained this to him later that morning as they sat in the apple orchard just outside the Chantry of Val Chevin. Between the two wars, the towns and villages of Orlais had been strained nearly to the breaking point. Harvests were scant, and if trade ships and caravans could not make it back and forth between the empire and other nations, then the people were faced with imminent starvation.

“And the nobles in the cities just keep pretending the commoners don’t exist,” Donovan remarked, glancing about at the bright summer landscape and enjoying the feel of the sun and the fresh air. In the Masked Empire, even the placid view of the countryside itself seemed to be a mask for the conflicts that brewed just over the next hill.

Mother Hanna was silent, but gave him an enigmatic smile.

“This can’t go on.” He shook his head in frustration after a few moments. “ _Someone_ has to do _something_.”

Mother Hanna’s smile then widened at his words. “That, good ser, is something I wished to speak to you about.” Reaching into her robes, she withdrew a letter with a broken seal and extended it to him. “Read this.”

Brow furrowing, he took the parchment and carefully unfolded it, peering at the delicate penmanship that swirled across its surface. His hazel gaze darted back and forth across the page, and as he took in the contents, it slowly widened. Mother Hanna’s expression was unchanged as she watched him, though a flash of curiosity sparked in her own dark eyes as they met his. He handed the letter back to her, and his voice bore a note of incredulity as he finally asked, “A Conclave? In Ferelden?”

“Yes, good ser,” she replied as she stowed the letter away again. “So you see… someone _is_ doing something. And now the question must be this – do you wish to be a part of it? Is this meeting something to which you and your fellows would be interested in contributing?”

He paused, looking between his feet. He nudged at a tiny mushroom with the toe of his boot as he thought, and then finally answered, “To be honest, Mother, I don’t imagine most of my company agreeing to it. They would think it too dangerous. And quite possibly a trap. As for myself,” he then glanced upwards at the brilliantly blue sky above and sighed, “I’m not sure what difference we could make by being there. The rebels outnumber loyalist and apologist Templars ten to one. Our voices would be drowned out.”

“That may be true. But would you rather the Divine think you nonexistent? Sometimes, you can speak without talking. Your presence there _could_ make all the difference, even if your voices are not heard.”

Donovan nodded slowly in agreement, but said nothing. There were more than a few moments of silence between them before the Mother finally added, “There is another thing. If this Conclave is not something you ultimately decide to take part in, might I suggest another opportunity for you?” When he glanced her way, curiousity piqued, she continued, “All of our Templars left us at the Lord Seeker’s decree, and we have been left with a significantly reduced amount of protection.” She glanced out over the rest of the town. “So many of our militia and guardsmen were conscripted into the war, and now, with our Templars gone as well, the citizens of Val Chevin are terrified, especially of an attack by opportunist mages. I know of several influential persons who would be willing to pay to be able to sleep at night, and I would be more than willing to provide lodging for you in our Chantry if you would stay here. It would do much to comfort the masses just to see you guarding our doors. The rebels may have damaged the image of the Templars for some, but there are a great many who still take comfort in seeing your armor.”

He nodded again in understanding as he absorbed her words and considered her offer. Guard duty in Val Chevin would certainly be better than risking their lives on the roads, and if he was honest with himself, he had had enough of travel for several months. Instead of making camp in the elements and rapidly depleting their meager coin purses whenever they needed to purchase food, they would have secure lodging and whatever pay the locals were willing to provide.

“I will speak to my companions about both these opportunities as soon as they are in fit shape to listen,” he replied at length. “I cannot promise you anything, but I will see what they have to say.”

Mother Hanna inclined her head to him and rose slowly. “That is all I ask, Ser Donovan. I will leave you to your thoughts. May the Maker guide us all.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“No.”

Dieter’s voice was flat as he was the first to respond to Donovan’s question as to whether or not they wished to attend Divine Justinia’s Conclave. The Templars under his command had all gathered around a table in one of the Chantry’s cramped storerooms, a wall of glittering metal standing shoulder to shoulder as they listened to their Lieutenant’s words.

“No?” Cornelia’s expression was one of incredulity as she looked at the mountain of a man opposite her. “Just like that? You don’t think we should at least see how it goes in person?”

Harwin crossed his arms. “Look, we investigated that weird Templar in Tantervale. Remember what happened? Our Order is barking mad, plain and simple, and so is the Divine for even wanting them in the same room with her.”

“So are the rebel mages,” Clara interjected.

“Having both sides come together under one roof is a disaster waiting to happen,” Stefan rumbled as his eyes fixed on the table before him. “There’s nothing left for either side anymore but fighting until one or both parties are all dead. The Divine waited too late, and now there is nothing left to salvage.”

“And all we accomplish by being in amongst them is making ourselves dead too,” Dieter added at Stefan’s side.

“I would be willing to bet ten silver the war’ll start up again right under Her Perfection’s nose,” Sven snorted.

“Even with the Knights-Divine and Knight-Vigilant there?” Cornelia asked. “Surely they-”

“They may not be on her side,” Jehanna remarked with a pointed look out of her one good eye.

Emil sighed. “As good as the idea is, I’m certain that peace won’t be achieved just by the Divine _wanting_ it to happen,” he observed, his armor glinting in the candlelight as he gesticulated wildly to emphasize his words. “She has the majority of the Templar Order, the Seekers, _and_ the Circles to fight.”

“And what in the Void do you think is going to happen if they refuse Her Perfection’s request?” Jehanna asked. “This isn’t a negotiation, however delicately it might be worded… it’s an _ultimatum_.”

“So you think the Divine will have both sides crushed if they don’t stop being dunces and agree to peace terms? How? An Exalted March? With _what_ army?” Douglas thumped his breastplate emphatically. “ _We_ are supposed to be Most Holy’s army, and two-thirds of us or more have turned against her!”

“Not to mention Orlais’s soldiers are all occupied with the Civil War.”

“And Ferelden’s soldiers are still rebuilding from the Blight.”

“It’s impossible. Any way you look at it.” Harwin shook his head slowly in dismay.

Donovan sighed, glancing from one companion to the next. “So, you just think it’s all pointless and we shouldn’t even go just to represent others across Thedas like us? We can’t be the only ones. You know that. Shouldn’t the Divine at least know we’re there? That not everyone wants to fight to the death over this?”

Emil shook his head. “I don’t see it helping things.”

“With all due respect, what _we_ want doesn’t matter,” Douglas replied shortly. “ _We_ didn’t want this war to start in the first place, but the Seekers and Commanders decided it for us. Just like they’ll decide the outcome of the Conclave for us, too.”

Clara huffed. “We may not be able to sway the outcome, but that doesn’t change the fact that we _should_ go as Templars, answering the Divine’s call.”

At that, the group began to debate amongst themselves, their voices becoming louder and louder as they made arguments both for and against going, with most of them being against, just like Donovan had suspected they would be. He exchanged looks with Jehanna, and then he, too, shook his head.

“All _right_!” She suddenly slammed her fist on the table, and everyone fell silent with eyes wide as they turned to her. Once she was sure she had their attention and their bickering was at an end, she continued, “We’ve said our piece, and the Lieutenant knows how most of us stand on this issue. Let us hear what he wishes us to do, now.”

Donovan nodded his thanks to her and thought a moment before replying slowly, “The Conclave is at the end of August. It will take us a little over a month to get there, just shy of two months at the most. I propose that we give it some time and revisit this question again at a later date. In the meantime, we can do some work for Mother Hanna while we wait for more news about the situation. Is that agreeable?”

Silence filled the room as they looked one to the other, and then slowly nodded.

“Aye.”

“Ser.”

“Good to me.”

Donovan smiled, “Good. Now, let’s go speak with the good Mother and see what exactly she wants us to do.”


End file.
